sometimes i feel as though my heart will burst. there are too many things to do; to achieve, to lose, to be. there are too many experiences that i’m yet to see- i am the shell of a bomb, i’ve been shredded a thousand times over. but i can appreciate further destruction. further pacing on the beach as sand settles in your shoes and thinking, “they said this would help”. and then the waves wash over you. waves of guilt. they sting your eyes like the saltwater drenched coastline but they contain something else. droplets of blood, and shark fins and the soundless sea that somehow retches, “it's you. you’re next to-” but you don’t hear the next word because the singing of sirens draws you in as you lose your limbs to a bloodthirsty sea giant but your brain stumbles across two oysters treasuring pearls. one reads “die” and the other “fly” and you scrunch your shoulders up and will for wings but they don’t sprout and so the sea must have said “die”. “you’re next to die”. the angels of the sea are sirens and sirens don’t like me, you mutter. it makes sense; everything musical is washed out of your veins as it was cut down like a flowerbud reaching for the sun. it was born to flourish but became tone deaf because what wouldn’t turn deaf if the world was full of screams? screams that burned your throat even though your voice box was unused. i see the pearls in your voicebox. one reads “live” and the other “bury”. how do you define each word, is it like a pulse to you? does the vocabulary of your ancestors- or the sea’s- grip you? or do the words sound empty; are they full of screams?